On Her Arms
by Protector23
Summary: Jane's question to Lisbon regarding the strange cut on her arm yields a domino effect that may eventually lead to either the destruction of her spirit and his will, or a relationship that permanently mends all injured aspects of both of their lives. Rated T for self-harm, momentary violence, drunkenness, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is rated due to the graphic nature of future chapters. The inspiration from this story comes from personal experience and my literary need to see things on paper before they are ever put to rest.**

**I don't own The Mentalist, obviously.**

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The dreaded question; "What happened to your arm?" Her stomach sank. She had hoped nobody would ever notice. They hadn't until today. He hadn't until today.

Lie. _I can't, he'll know_. Just do it. "Oh," she tried to sound oblivious, "No idea. I must have done that sometime last night and didn't even notice." It didn't work, "Thanks, Jane."

He could smell the lie see the fear in her eyes. It wasn't like Lisbon to try to cover something up with a lie. She's smarter than that, "Don't lie to me, Lisbon."

Her heart, who had, at first, skipped several beats, was now shifting from a 4/4 measure to an 8/8 and finding a new minor key. She knew she couldn't lie. Hell, she didn't know why she even tried in the first place. There's no way out. _There has to be_. She can't let anybody know. What will happen if Jane finds out? What are the options? Lie again, run, change the subject, trip awkwardly and hope he forgets the question, pretend to get a call, talk to VanPelt, Rigsby, Cho, somebody. There has to be a way out of this—

"Lisbon?"

Her eyes met his and they stopped walking in the middle of the unending hallway, blocking traffic and not really caring. She silently pleaded for him to just drop it and he gradually began to see the importance this new, or perhaps old, issue had on Teresa's life. It was one of those stares that told more than words could ever manage. She knew he had an idea what was going on, but ignorantly hoped he didn't. He knew the mark on her arm meant more than just a bump into a wall or accidental graze from the car door, but he didn't want to believe it meant that much more.

"What happened—"

"Jane," she interrupted him. She couldn't hear the question again, "I…uh…" she looked down and grabbed the mark the conversation and been directed towards with her hand. Maybe if nobody could see it, nobody would remember it existed. The floor didn't seem to hold any of the answers she wanted it to so she looked back up at her consultant, "I just—"

Damn. The words were caught in her throat. She felt weak, "Did someone do this to you?"

"No." Truth.

He tried again, "Is this a defensive wound?"

"No." Truth.

Third time, unfortunately, is the charm, "Did you do this to yourself?"

"N-…no." Lie.

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**If you would like to read upcoming chapters, please comment and tell me so.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: this chapter is a slightly graphic one and it is most DEFINITELY triggering. If you have a history of depression/self-harm and you feel like you can't handle a triggering story, don't read this chapter. Or any chapter, really.**

**I don't own the Mentalist. Duh.**

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Eight hours earlier…

She didn't give a damn what time the fucking clock said it was. It was Teresa's time to herself and nobody was going to interfere. She had everything anybody ever needed in the world: music and alcohol. She didn't need a damn family to make her happy. The only thing family ever got her was disappointment—or at least that's what she told herself.

Fuck that. But she was still hurt. All she wanted was to be loved by someone who genuinely cared. She wanted to have someone to love and obsess over and hold onto. What is she doing? Sitting on the wet floor of a bathroom with only an old t-shirt and underwear, letting her wet hair drip-dry onto her soaked back, and trying to break the bottle before she can drink anymore. Where's the gun, Lisbon?

Don't cry, but she does. Quietly, to herself, in the beginning; but later, it's to the world. She wants the whole world to feel as bad as she does, but it doesn't. Her existence is shit, but then she sees it.

The scintillating edge of a hard-point. It's sharper than she remembers. After it has been pulled out of the drawer and brought back to the corner with her, it smiles to see her tears.

She knew all the reasons why or why not. She weighed them in her head until the alcohol pushed the "why not" away and decided it was time. She wanted to think carefully about which spot she could pick that nobody would see, but that purpose blurred into which spot she could pick that would hurt the most. Sting the most. The secret didn't matter anymore now that inebriation had set in.

The sharpest side was brought down to her pale-white skin. The moment before always seems like the longest. The blade was dragged down, slowly, deliberately, honest. She shut her eyes tight and pulled her head back. The only thing she wanted to feel right now was the pain. Not the insecurity, not the conflict, not the doubt or regret. When she finally opened her eyes, her vision was dampened by black spots here and there. The blade was on the wet floor, but she could still feel where it had been.

Minutes past. A dark, thick line of blood fell down her arm and flowed onto the bathroom floor, mixing harmoniously with the fading music and drippy left-over water.

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**Please comment if you would like to see more from me :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**To Logan- one of the three that commented on the previous chapter- I appreciate the truely encouraging review you gave me yesterday. This story is hard for me to write, and it helps to have someone be so kind as to indicate that I have accomplished my goal of eloquently writing the subject without triggering. **

**Ultimately, I hope to write a book to raise awareness of self-harm and teen depression, making the subject less sticky and awkward for people to discuss. I know that's a long-term project I'm not really equipt for yet, but when I finally get that book published I will be sure to thank the encouraging readers of the Fanfiction community.**

**If anyone has any testimonies, stories, arguements, etc. pertaining to the subject matter, please feel free to either message me privately or write it in a review. It helps to talk...or type.**

**I don't own the Mentalist.**

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In her office, sitting face-to-face with Jane, Lisbon thought back to her drunken episode in her molding apartment bathroom as Jane stared straight through the fragile glass of her eyes and into the depths of her mind and memory. A certain panic fabricated itself into jolts of electricity, flowing outward from her heart into her legs, fingertips, head, arm. Her left arm. Her right leg. Her abdomen. Three places that held the timeline of her life's misery and pain through the etchings of knives, all electrified by the adrenaline. Lisbon had a lot of practice in keeping up the necessary façade to please Jane and her co-workers, but hardly any when it came to personal matters. That's why she avoided it.

"You did this to yourself," Jane repeated after a long while of sitting and staring.

Lisbon did her best to hold her composure, "Jane, I don't think this is appropriate for—"

Shift, "Shut up, Teresa." His voice was harsh, cynical, scrutinizing- but still soft. _He thinks less of me._ He should, "Don't try to change the subject and don't try to lie to me again. You know, it's really kind of insulting that you think you can get away with that."

Her police-forced wall lost its fury, "Jane, please just don't…it's-" She let her guard down and that was his cue to keep pushing down that path if he was ever going to get an answer.

"It's what? It's too hard? You want to talk about 'too hard', because I think I may know a thing or two about 'too hard'."

"No," her palms were sweaty. Her voice deceptively unwavering, she didn't know whether to feel violated, angry, or scared.

"Then what, Lisbon," he knew the word to break her, "are you too weak? Little Teresa can't go crying home to Mommy, so it's—"

Fist. Desk. "Shut up, Jane! I need it!" She felt every muscle in her face drop in terror. She broke. _Weak_. What is he going to think of her now?

His voice then morphed into silk sheets, rubbing smoothly down your bruised skin in the middle of the night. It kept you warm and protected you from the invisible dangers that lurked just to your right and left, "Need what, Lisbon?"

The electricity in her head shook the hangover and weighed her consciousness down like a boulder. She looked around the room for something to stare at, to pick up, to divert his attention to, but nothing volunteered itself to her cause. The universe and all its slaves were determined this conversation was going to continue, "I need it."

She hadn't really known what she meant by that before, but some buried thought dug back up to the surface and words came before cognizance did, "I need the pain and...I need to know I can still feel something," her voice, again, remained deceitfully stable, "and I need to feel something to know that this thing where I just take orders and give orders and numbly watch dead people's family's bring their loved one back to life, is not what I am. I need to know I can still feel something. I need the pain."

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**Reviews are love. And really, all you need is love.**


	4. Chapter 4

**I love the few reviews I have recieved so far. They are encouraging and make me smile. I know it has been dark so far, and it should be, but I want my readers to know that the longevity of the dark chapters and the longevity of how one with depression can suffer are absolutely paralleled. But know that in this story, just as in life, the light will eventually come. Eventually.**

**I don't own the Mentalist.**

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In isolation she sat hunched over a blank report, seemingly focused on the words she would soon put onto the crisp white sheet, but actually contemplating her next move. It depended on Jane. Doesn't it always? She wanted him to forget he ever knew, to go on like they always had with him getting into trouble and her saving his ass.

But at the same time, she wanted it to go away. Lisbon knew that if nobody ever confronted her with the issue, she would continue on like she had for the past twenty years. She didn't like that it had to be Patrick Jane to find out, but she knew that she need the pain—all of it, physical and unreal…or real—to go away.

Her mind wondered where he was now. _Does it matter_? Yes. He was on the couch, unsleeping, perhaps counting the ways he could expose her to the rest of the team. What if he was re-evaluating how he viewed her and she was no longer worthy of his attention? That's not true. _How do you know_? Maybe he hated her, she didn't hate him.

Cautiously, she approached the vacant chair that rested beside his brown leather couch. She meant to say his name forever ago, but somehow seeing his peaceful face made the nature of this moment seem even more precarious, "Jane."

He acted surprised to see her, squeezing the groggy fog out of his eyes. He yawned, and expectantly looked, "Yes?"

Her elbows dug into her knees and she tried not to let him see her face, burrowing her chin to her chest. _Look at him._ I can't. _Weak._ Their eyes met, "About what happened earlier…" That was meant to be an invitation for him to say something comforting or damning, but he didn't take the bait, "I…I just wanted—what are you going to do?"

A deep breath and a new speck on the ceiling he could stare at captured her expectations. It took an eternity for him to finally speak, "What do you want me to do, Lisbon?"

She stood and nervously walked around the dimly lit office, settling for a nice view of the stars from the window just behind Rigsby's unattended desk. Nobody but the preoccupied janitor was near and Lisbon doubted he could hear their conversation above the deafeningly loud iPod he always carried, "I thought you were the genius," a pause, "I don't know what you should do."

"I didn't ask what I should do; I asked what you wanted me to do. There's a difference," he corrected.

If she were the type, she would be crying. But she's not. "I don't know, Jane."

"Yes you do," he knew how he got answers out of her before and he wasn't afraid of employing that method again, "Seriously? You don't even know what you want? If you don't know what you want, than what do you know?" No answer. "What do you know, Lisbon? Anything? Do you know how to—"

"Jane, stop it," the only thing she wanted at that moment was to suffocate. She wanted the hands she was burying her face in to never move and she just wanted to die. Anything but confronting him about this of all things.

"Stop it. You want me to 'stop it'. Man, Lisbon, before today I could have sworn you were the toughest woman I know, but now I'm not so sure."

Nevermind. Just nevermind. She almost ran to her office, bumping into the corner of a desk and the edge of a wall to get there fast enough. Click of the lock, ignore the footsteps heading toward the door. Back uncomfortably sliding down the glass door and knees coming to meet her chest for protection. Head slammed onto her arms, "Lisbon!" Ignore. He's not there. _Yes he is; he's there judging you_.

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**oasidsedfahnoiefn. Review. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Well well well, I see you have returned ;) Do tell me what you think of this chapter- I know not all of you have been leaving reviews, my lovely readers!**

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It took him a while, but he finally left. As he retired onto his couch, he regretted the use of such tactics against his old friend and boss but didn't allow that to delay scheduling the next round of interrogations that would surely yield the results both he and Lisbon needed.

Meanwhile, the demons in Lisbon's semi-drunken mind flashed bright colors into her vision as she stared at the contents of her desk's small office supply cup. She took another sip of the vodka she illegally kept in the bottom drawer. _Alcoholic._ I'm not. _You are, just like Daddy._

She counted every item in that cup: five ballpoint pens, two pencils, one red marker, one letter opener. Lisbon didn't know what she planned on doing with it, but she plucked it out of its spot and held the sharp end tight in her hand. She knew she shouldn't, but wanted it anyway. Her mother would be so disappointed, but she's not here. There wouldn't be any harm in just one more if it was somewhere Jane would never find. After all, Jane is the only one who knows.

Jane knows. The thought made her shudder. It was enough to make her rethink the decision, but not enough to prevent it. _Do it._ Not here. She couldn't bring herself to display such behavior in the one place she felt strong, powerful, needed. This office means more than paperwork and that will not be compromised.

Lisbon slowly unlocked the door, trying to stay as quiet as possible just in case Jane hadn't left the bullpen. The metal lock slid into a deafening 'click' and the hinges squeaked as the door inched forward. Back straight, firm stare, one foot in front of the other. She gripped the sharp tool tighter in her moist hands, never diverting her vision from the women's bathroom sign.

From behind, his cologne floated airily around her. His hand. Her wrist. Stop.

Gently, as if she had been a dying flower rather than a human being, Jane forced her to turn and face him. She inhaled sharply and the sudden intake of chilled air stung her nose and throat. No words, he stared. She slowly lifted her face to his. In this moment of silence, Lisbon read his movements in the intent to discover his intentions. Was it concern in his eyes? _No, disappointment._ He's not. He can't be. _He is_. I know. But it doesn't matter.

She would regret it later, but for now she stepped closer. Bravery, Teresa. Jane made no preventative motion, so she got even closer. Her arms, letter opener not forgotten, smoothly wrapped themselves around him and her head tentatively rested upon his chest. She wished she could see his face to know what he was thinking. Seconds passed and they hadn't moved, he hadn't moved.

_Idiot_. Her grip on the letter opener intensified until she felt the blood dripping out of her palm, down her arm, tickle her elbow, fall to the ground. _Stupid woman, why are you holding onto him?_ Lisbon hopelessly dropped her arms and head and almost spoke but couldn't quite do it.

_Walk away_. So she does, almost.

She was surprised to feel is hands firmly grab her by the shoulders and pull her back to him, hints of violence in his actions. She didn't care; he was hugging her in a way one wouldn't hold just another friend. His right hand held her head close to his heart and his left secured the small of her back. She listened to his heart beat and melted into his breathing as his chest rose and fell under her cheek. She felt warm, surrounded, cared about. It was a feeling she missed and wanted to feel over and over again. She wanted the experience of emotional rebirth as much as she needed to breath or to sleep, but she wanted it with Jane.

_He will never love you._ She cried. Silently so he couldn't see, but she did. This wonderful first and last intimate moment with Jane will haunt her and she knew it.

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**I think we all know what this chapter is going to lead up to :) **


	6. Chapter 6

Breathe in, breathe out. She needs this, be patient. Angela would understand; it's just a hug. He could hear each drop of her blood hit the wooden floor. Images of Angela and Charlotte rose from a shallowed region of his memory, specially made for them. They lay unmoving on the familiar wooden floor of the upstairs bedroom; Jane imagined Lisbon's blood to be hers—Angela's— and brought her closer. He would protect her this time. _You can't._ I can. _You've already hurt her._ No. _Angie's dead._ Jane pressed his cheek to the top of her head and, after a few seconds of contemplation, replaced his cheek with his lips.

Lisbon's heart picked up again, she tried to control her breathing and refrain from laughing in excitement. The kiss on the top of her head was comparable to one a pet lover might give to their dog, but she loved it. He cares. Maybe not loves, but cares. About her. Lisbon hoped he wouldn't push her away after this, but knew that it was a possibility. Make this moment last, Lisbon. She hugged him tighter and tilted her head to where he might kiss her forehead, and he did. It wasn't until now that she realized the tears had ebbed.

Bravery, Teresa. Deep breath, look up. His eyes, blue and unforgiving and inviting. She left hers open in case he stopped her. Tip-toed, Lisbon brought her face closer to his. Closer. Closer. _This is a mistake_. I don't care. I need it.

Their lips met. He hadn't pushed her away, but hadn't kissed her back either. Jane? _He can't, think of Angela_. Angela's not here, I am. Jane closed his eyes. She did smell very much like Angela and her lips feel almost the same. He pretended Lisbon wasn't Lisbon at all and returned the kiss, soft as he always had for his wife.

Sweet seconds. Lisbon memorized how his lips felt against hers, how he tasted, how his hands held her close. He cared. Maybe even…

Jane reveled in the flashback. He and Angela had fallen in love and run off. They kissed in the grassy park and she held him just as Lisbon was holding him now. But in a snap, the vision of Angela faded. Something wasn't right, her taste. Jane faintly detected the alcohol on her lips, on her skin. Angela didn't drink, Lisbon drinks. He was kissing Lisbon, not Angela. He pulled back. He wanted to see her face, but he didn't. He saw Lisbon. Lisbon. His Lisbon, not Angela but his nonetheless.

She panicked. _Mistake_. She knew this was coming. It still shocked her.

He, furiously, brought her back. Not softly as before, soft was for Angela, but harsh and forceful. She adapted to the shift curiously. He crushed her back against a wall and kissed her unlike he had ever for Angela or any other woman. This wasn't for love, this is a need.

Lisbon dropped the letter opener behind him and deepened the kiss just as he wanted, her hands wandered. Her mind spun. She wanted all of him, all the time. But she knew she couldn't so she threw her desire into this moment, this contact.

He stopped. Abrupt. Unfaltering.

Her eyes were still closed as he stepped back, picked up the letter opener, and left the bullpen. He left her, confused. Suddenly, it hurt. She hurt everywhere. Her knees gave in. On the floor, kneeling. Alone, again. Where's the gun, Lisbon?

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**Oh, hello there sexy. My my, you're looking so delicious sitting there with your mouse hovering above the review box. Go on, do it. Press the button, my love. I know you want to ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**HELP WANTED: I'm writing a side story that isn't a Fanfiction and I was hoping to find someone that might give me their opinion of the plot line, character development, setting, etc. If you're interested, please either PM me or leave me a heads up in your review. Thanks dolls!**

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She remained, kneeling. Not crying. She didn't feel worthy of tears, anybody's, even her own. She just remained. Kneecaps digging sharply into the wood, blood soaked. Her eyes fixed nowhere. Thoughts drifted from regret to sorrow to depression to naught. In this world she had carved out a small niche to provide purpose, and she usually kept within the boundaries of that small coffin in the walls of existence. She should have known that as soon as she stepped out, no matter how short the period of time, her purpose and meaning would be swallowed and destroyed by this abhorrent life.

He hadn't gone far, just to the other side of the half wall where she couldn't see but he could still hear. Jane decided that he wouldn't move until he heard her get up and walk to the stairs to go home. He didn't know why he stopped. It didn't feel right. He had to stay strong for Angela. He took a moment to pretend that he had died instead of them. He could see Angie living her life in despair for a while, but he couldn't bear the thought of her being broken by his loss. Jane hoped that had she lived and he died, she would eventually move on, raise their daughter, live with that beautiful smile on her face every day. The one that seemed luminescent even in the darkest of places.

He hoped she was happy now.

_He_ hoped _she _was happy. Right now.

What if she hoped he was happy? She has to think that—she loves Jane like he loves her. He wants her to be happy always and she must want the same!

His revelation was interrupted by the sound of a small voice. He heard Lisbon stand and call his name. She walked towards where he concealed himself before breaking into a run, "Jane!"

She appeared beside him, looking ahead instead of to the side where he stood silently. He was amazed by how the moonlight made her even more…gorgeous. She finally looked towards him, "Jane. I'm sorry; please just forget that ever happened. I was drinking and I didn't think about what I was doing and it's late. We can act like this never happened. I value our friendship and I understand why I shouldn't have made you do that." He stared at her as she scrambled to spit out as many words as she could in one breath in the hopes that it made sense and fixed everything, "Forgive me?"

Jane's jaw shifted, "No." The stillness that pervaded the atmosphere was blinding, deafening, crushing, and painful all at the same time. _He will never forgive you_. Maybe after some time…_Don't be stupid._ She nodded stiffly, "I understand," she lied.

He smiled, "No you don't. I won't forgive you because there is nothing to forgive." Emotion and feeling replaced the stillness in an instand. The warmth within Lisbon's spirit filled her up and she smiled too. But that warmth was gone when he picked up her right hand and carefully examined her palm, turning it over and wiping away a bit of the blood to get a better look at it. _Don't ask questions_.

"Why did you do this?"

Lisbon thought about not answering, but knew it was hopeless. If he wanted the answer, he was going to get it, "At first it was because I was afraid you thought less of me, then it was because I thought you hated me."

Quickly, "I don't hate you," he grabbed the base of her skull, "Do you understand? You're my closest friend, Lisbon." He stated this roughly, thinking the tone of his voice would help the message stick in her memory. They embraced each other once again before leaving CBI headquarters hand in hand.

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**So I am going to spare all of you the MA content of it all for two reasons: I do not enjoy writing scenes of that nature and also because it leaves room for you to fill in the blanks with your own imagination. R-E-V-I-E-W! please. :)**


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